


A Winter's Ball

by Anonymous



Series: took time (to let you know) [4]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AND THE. schuyler sisters were the envy of aaaaall, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Black Hermione Granger, Discussions of Race, F/M, Fluff, Good Draco Malfoy, Good Narcissa Black Malfoy, M/M, Not Canon Compliant - Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, Yule Ball, seventeen eeeiiighty a winters baaaaall, so i MIGHT have been listening to hamilton when I wrote this, sue me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-03
Updated: 2018-06-26
Packaged: 2019-03-29 08:56:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13923732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Two couples. Two balls.





	1. Manor

**Author's Note:**

> Still hammering out the editing of the second chapter, which will be Draco and Harry at the Yule Ball, but it should be up within a couple days. Just wanted to get this first chapter up before ao3 automatically deleted it from my drafts in a couple days.
> 
> I should also mention the first chapter technically has a companion, but since it's pure smut, I didn't link it in the series proper. https://archiveofourown.org/works/13965807

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> chapter one - Manor: The Malfoys host their annual winter's ball on New Year's. Kingsley and Narcissa finally, as Tonks would say, get their shit together.

Kingsley bit the inside of his bottom lip to keep his jaw from dropping completely at the sight of Malfoy Manor on New Year’s Eve. He’d been shocked when he’d gotten the formal invitation to this year’s Winter Ball, though he supposes he shouldn’t have been. He and Narcissa were friends now, strangely enough. He hadn’t been to one of these extravagant affairs since his mother had died, taking with her both his complicated feelings towards family, and the last person who cared about the Shacklebolt name and their position with the rest of the Sacred 28.

The staircase—a huge rounded thing, coming up to a balcony above the ballroom entrance—was draped in snow covered vines and sparkling silver tinsel, falling down thick and swooping, until there were perfectly preserved gardens, tucked away from prying eyes at the sides of the room. The floor itself was polished to gleaming, and enchanted to look like a frozen lake—tiny silver fish darting to and fro beneath the frosted surface. Snow floated gently down from the ceiling, evaporating before it reached the heads of the guests. The ceiling itself was less a ceiling and more wispy clouds, with soft lights hidden strategically within them. Through the grand doors of the ballroom, Kingsley could see an equally impressive display, only in gold and filled with people. Specifically, people he was sure had given the minister or himself headaches on multiple occasions with their stubborn, highhanded old-money politics. Even with Narcissa being the one to invite him, he didn’t have a good reason for why he’d come, only—

“Well,” Adaline Orvan huffed, crinkled face staring up at the ceiling with grudging admiration. “Your woman certainly knows how to put on a party.”

—He might have been strong-armed into it.

“I’ve told you,” Kingsley sighed. “She is _not_ ‘my woman.’ She is a colleague, and a good friend.” Mitch had apparently been filling his grandmother’s head with all sorts of nonsense about his relationship with Narcissa, and had ( _purposefully_ , Kingsley thought petulantly, despite Mitch’s fervent denials) let slip that he was going to miss this ball to spend New Year’s with them recuperating from the two-day Christmas party the Orvans had. Adaline had then practically dragged him back to his own flat, stuffed him into his best dress robes, and now they were here.

Adaline scoffed. “Colleague,” she muttered. “ _Friend_. Mitch and Miss Nymphadora say differently.” _Mitch and Tonks are bald faced liars_ , Kingsley did not say, because he was a mature and seasoned senior auror, who did not rise to such blatantly obvious bait. “She seems lovely from their accounts, Kingsley, despite her husband’s crimes. Though I will admit I was skeptical about you being with an older woman.” Kingsley also did not say that Narcissa was barely six years older than him, because they _were not. Seeing. Each other_.

Thankfully, he was saved from having to say anything, since Narcissa’s son came striding out of the ballroom to meet them. While the Hogwart’s Yule Ball had been a scant few days ago, he looked as energized as possible for a fourteen-year-old heir. Despite his features, the young Draco Malfoy could not have looked less like his father just then. Thick blue robes hung open around a vest and pants that gleamed white, though the collar of his vest and hem of his robes were lined in a dark blue, tracing up in a vine pattern that matched the decor. His hair was gelled like his father’s but in a way that allowed for waves, and for a few strands to fall around his ears. He smiled at them, and any remains of Lucius Malfoy’s specter were completely cast off.

“The Honorable Lady Orvan, Senior Auror Shackleolt; hello, welcome! Draco Malfoy,” he said, shaking Kingsley’s hand and kissing Adaline’s knuckles. “Dinner's ended, unfortunately, but there will be trays worked around the room until a quarter to midnight, when we’ll be moving to the garden for fireworks. If you’ll follow me, I’ll take you to the coat room, and then you’ll be free to anything on the ground floor.”

They followed him, back to the foyer and through a side door to a comparatively plain room. Obligingly, Kingsley and Adaline took off their cloaks. Adaline looked around, and Kingsley nearly visibly shuddered at the calculating look on her face.

“How’s your mother?” she asked casually, as Draco took her cloak. “I have not seen much of her in retirement.”

“She’s well, thank you for asking,” Draco said, a smaller smile on his face. He moved on to take Kingsley’s cloak, and he handed it over easily, glaring at the side of Adaline’s head. “She’s still out dancing, though she’s been up working and setting up since dawn. It looks exhausting, but she enjoys it, and I enjoy the balls.” He nodded at the both of them, leaving them in the room.

Adaline hummed in belated response, staying silent for a moment while Malfoy’s footsteps faded. “Stamina,” she finally said, looking at Kingsley pointedly. “Always good in a partner.”

Kingsley choked on air. It was going to be a long night.

 

He eventually managed to lose Adaline. Despite being retired and quite happy with staying home as "gran gran" for five years, her long career as one of the most influential judges in the Wizengamot slowly built her a small gaggle of schmoozers and hangers-on, and Kingsley was able to slip off to the side with a flute of champagne.

Unwittingly, his eyes found Narcissa in the crowd. She was dressed in the same color robes as Draco, also open, though her sleeves were pure lace and the jeweled dress she wore underneath was all deep blue. True to her son’s word, she was slowly twirling around the room with a very glittery gentleman Kingsley was reasonably sure had been one of the bigger contributors to Fudge’s campaign. Spiring, or something like that. Her jaw and shoulders were tense despite her smile, so he might have been offensive, but her eyes were also doing the squint they did when she was tired and didn’t want to be the first one to quit.

 _Stamina_ , Adaline’s voice played in his head, and he shook himself roughly. While he wasn’t proud of just how long it took him to realize, once Tonks had pointed it out the first time it was obvious Narcissa wanted…something, from him. In the weeks in between then and now, he’d mostly come to accept that, though he had no idea _why_. He couldn’t honestly say how he’d have reacted if she’d propositioned him, in the early stages of their friendship. An affair with the prejudiced ex-wife of a convicted Death Eater would have been a bad idea, let alone an affair with one of the most well known pureblood socialites, Lady Malfoy. As she became more intwined with the DMLE and the Unspeakables as a consultant, the idea became even more tempting as it became worse. Lady Malfoy was singular in both her fortune, her mind, and her influence both in and outside of the Ministry; he couldn’t allow her attractiveness or her apparent want of him to put him in a position where he could jeopardize her relationship with the ministry. But as weeks turned into months, and fall turned into winter, Lady Malfoy had become Lady Black, and Lady Black had become Narcissa.

And he’d somehow fallen irrevocably in love with Narcissa.

Narcissa, who had entirely too much sugar in all of her food; who had a stunning intelligence that rivaled most of his own Aurors; who was restrained at odd times and free at even odder ones, who was just a touch daft when it came to clothes ( _“This hem is braided silk!” she’d shouted when they’d been running, through muddy grounds warded against Apparition, from a surprise attack. He’d nearly picked her up and carried her, just to get her to_ move.); who loved her family with a passion and loyalty Kingsley had almost never seen, even within pureblood houses that placed such emphasis on it; and who was selfish and ruthless and protective and generous, somehow all at once. He’d fallen in love with her, and in some twist of childish romanticism, couldn’t bear the option that what she felt was less than him.

Both Tonks and Mitch were young and idealistic—they could easily have confused lust and loneliness for genuine feeling, and Adaline only had their tales to go off of. Even if they hadn’t, there was much more than simple want or friendship that women like Narcissa had to consider when choosing someone—something he’d struggled to remember the longer they spent together. Though one of the 28 wholly pureblood families, the Shacklebolts were still on the outside of the common ostentatious wealth, social status, and general whiteness, and Kingsley couldn't imagine it having gotten better since he's cut ties with largely all of the families to become a bloody auror. He recalled being eleven, stuffed into dress robes and forced to go to some ball the Black family had put on, feeling like an exotic oddity. He’d only danced with the nearly adult Narcissa Black for a moment—something she likely didn’t remember and had probably only done out of pity at his awkwardness—but he remembered a part of their conversation. It was an open secret that Lucius Malfoy was going to ask to court her, and their parents were already planning a summer wedding and arguing bitterly over inheritance and dowry. Somehow, they’d ended up on the topic of love.

_“Do you love anyone?”_

_“No, and I don’t think I want to. I’d like a husband I can understand, and who’s respectable, but love seems like more trouble than it’s worth.”_

Andromeda had already run off with Ted Tonks, shaking the pureblood world to its core and planting the seeds in his head that his mother was wrong. Even with this admission in his head at the time of the wedding, it had seemed like Narcissa and Malfoy were the perfect couple and darlings of his old world.For twenty years they _had_ been, and Kingsley had only truly known Narcissa for four months.

Four months.

He sighed.

Someone sidled up beside him on the far wall, and he instinctively shifted so his back was to the corner and his hand was nearer to his wand as he looked up. He gaped. “Andromeda?”

“Kingsley Shacklebolt,” she greeted. Of the three sisters, Andromeda had always terrified Kingsley the most. She had all the markings of the madness and cunning of the Black family, while still running off with a muggleborn wizard and somehow living a domestic life with him and their daughter. Tonight, though, she looked the part of her family: stark green robe speaking of money and taste, with dark hair pulled back and styled in a traditional way he knew she never would have taught Tonks.

“What are you—hello, how are you?” he scrambled to full height, sweeping into a bow and pulling her hand to his mouth in a chaste kiss.

“Tense and uncomfortable,” Andromeda answered. “But Cissy has _ideas_ about reconnecting with family and showing a united front, so I’m here anyway. What’s your excuse?”

“I was pressured into coming by a woman who seems to think herself my mother,” he said, relaxing somewhat and smiling at her answer. She was terrifying, but it was nice to know there was someone as uncomfortable as him here.

“Ah,” Andromeda said. She waved over to where Adaline was being waited on by a man much older than even her, bringing her a small plate and another flute of alcohol. “Judge Orvan?”

“She’s been retired for half a decade, but yes,” Kingsley answered.

“So you’re not here just at my sister’s invitation,” she continued, and he groaned. Never relax around one third of the most conniving set of sisters this side of the ocean. “It explains why you haven’t found her for a dance yet.”

“Not you too,” Kingsley begged, though he already knew it was pointless.

“What?” Andromeda smirked. “I hear it’s quite the story.”

“There isn’t one,” Kingsley fervently assured her. “Narcissa is marvelous, really, but there are too many forces that would destroy a relationship.”

He didn’t quite realize what he’d admitted with that until Andromeda questioned, “Only outside forces?”

“Not- there isn’t- it’s nothing of note,” Kingsley spluttered. “Know that your sister is a friend, and nothing more.”

Andromeda held up her hands in surrender. “Alright,” she said easily. “I’m going to go find those trays of tiny food Narcissa was so worried about perfecting. Goodnight, Auror Shacklebolt.”

“Good night,” he responded, and closed his eyes. He sunk back against the wall behind him. His eyes snapped back open again, however, when a hand tensed like steel grabbed his upper arm and started dragging. The only reason the hand didn’t get jinxed was for the white blonde head bobbing along beside his shoulder.

“Narcissa—what—” he stuttered as he was marched through the closest door and out to a terrace garden, decorated as beautifully as the rest of the house. This beauty went unappreciated by Kingsley, in favor of the clearly angry woman at his side. Narcissa waved her wand carelessly back at the door, slamming it shut, and they marched to a corner of the gardens just out of sight of the door.

“Would you care to explain what _that_ was?” Kingsley asked. He let the frustration slip into his voice, since he couldn’t think of anything he’d done to warrant such treatment.

“No,” Narcissa said, face still in a scowl. To Kingsley’s horror, though, it was quickly collapsing into a look of hurt, with tears gathering in her eyes. “No, I don’t think I shall. You, however—you are going to explain to me what exactly you want from me.”

Kingsley frowned. “What _I_ want—”

“Yes! Because I have tried absolutely everything I can think of, and nothing I’ve done has even warranted a second glance from you. You will not look at me any other way than you would look at a trainee, yet Dora and Orvan and even bloody _Andromeda_ are convinced we are pining for each other. We. We, as if this is not just me making an absolute fool of myself while you remain oblivious. Or,” she took a deep breath, “Or not oblivious. Andy says you have looked at me as I want you to. And yet you still...”

Narcissa paused, a silence Kingsley couldn’t hope to fill. He was too busy gaping at her, sure he’d fallen asleep in the coatroom, or into his champagne. Narcissa continued. “Do you generally just find me unsuitable as...as a partner? Or even repulsive? Is it the fact that I was married? Or that I was with a servant of the Dark Lord? I won’t regret it; both because I truly cared for him and for the fact that my son wouldn’t exist without him. But please, Kingsley, just tell me, so I can put this behind me.”

“I would rather you didn’t,” Kingsley spoke quickly, not sure how to respond but knowing he couldn’t let her think like that for a second longer. He held out his hand, and she hesitantly grasped it. He used the link to pull her into him, leaning down to press his forehead against hers briefly, before pulling back and looking into her eyes. “Narcissa. Cissa. You love me?”

Narcissa eyed him as if he’d gone insane. “What do you think that tirade was?”

“Say it?” Kingsley asked, and he probably had no right to ask such a thing with all she’d revealed, but his logical mind seemed to have left him.

“I…I love you,” Narcissa said, still looking unsure, and that just wouldn’t stand.

“I love you, too,” Kingsley told her, and wanted to fit his mouth over the resulting gasp. “I was unsure you felt the same, or if you’d allow yourself to be with me if you did; I’m sorry it took us this long to come to this point because of my uncertainty.”

“It’s not _all_ your fault,” Narcissa admitted, sliding her hands from his and up to the juncture of his neck and shoulders.

“Admitting faults, my lady?” he asked, and he felt his lips quirk in an involuntary smile.

“Hardly,” Narcissa scoffed, then looked bashful. “May I kiss you?”

Kingsley nodded, though his _‘of course’_ was cut off by her lips.

It was a surprisingly leisure kiss, considering. They both explored slowly, sinking down onto a nearby bench. Narcissa took a liking to his bottom lip, and Kingsley breifly aquiesced to going after the territory that left him. Before long, however, he yanked her fully into his lap, causing a yelp he used to it’s fullest advantage, delving his tongue into her mouth. The kiss didn’t stay slow after that. Once Narcissa got comfortable with her new position, she wound her arms fully around his neck, planted her knees on either side of his hips and _attacked_. Kingsley found himself moaning into her, barely paying attention as his hands ran up and down her sides and back.

She was soft, in a way he hadn’t expected from the fire of her personality or stubborn dueling ability. Her waist was a delicate thing especially, and he almost groaned when he realized his fingers nearly fit all the way around it; she _did_ groan when his thumbs dipped close to the crease of her thighs, pressing closer into him. He let one hand settle more firmly on her hip to circle his thumb there, while sliding the other further up to find out the other sounds she made.

The door closest to them crashed open, and the mood was thoroughly doused as they scrambled apart. Narcissa fell to the bench beside him in what could only generously be called a sitting position, dress still rucked up her thighs, and Kingsley tried to fix his robes in a subtle way that also covered up evidence of what they’d been doing.

“So,” Andromeda Tonks said, smugly looking between the two of them. “Friends?”

“Yes, Andy, you’ve made your point,” Narcissa said irritably. “What?”

“I just came to tell you it’s nearly a quarter to midnight, and people are going to be looking for their hostess to lead them out to these gardens for the grand finale. You might want to get in there.” Andromeda smirked at them again, before leaving back the way she came.

Narcissa groaned when her sister was out of sight.

“We should get back,” Kingsley said reluctantly. “The guests.”

“Or,” Narcissa said. “We could take the secret passage straight up to the master bedroom, and fuck the lot of them.”

Kingsley snorted. “I doubt you want to mess up your connections like that. You’ll want to be nice to them. Start the new year as your mean to go on, and all that.”

“I ‘mean to go on’ stuffed full of your—” Narcissa started bluntly, and Kingsley cleared his throat, even more flustered than he’d been before. She sighed and stood up, pulling her clothes back into place and irritably casting spells to put her hair to rights. “Since that’s not on the table, though, I guess I’ll have to.”

She turned to leave, but Kingsley stood up and caught her wrist. “Hey,” he said, gently tugging her back to him and cupping her face. “Later? Not never," He pushed a strand of hair behind her ear, smiling. "And definitely not just once.”

Narcissa nodded, finally letting a small smile come to her face. “Later,” she agreed, standing up on tip toes to kiss him. “Happy New Year, Kingsley.”

“Happy New Year, Cissa,” he said, meeting her halfway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Turns out the actor for Kingsley is nearly a foot taller than Narcissa's actress, and I died for nearly an hour when I realized that. Cheers! Leave a review if you made it this far <3


	2. Yule

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Two - Yule: Harry is in over his head with the Triwizard Tournament. Draco offers to help him train for it, and the two forge a deeper friendship. It comes to a head during the Yule Ball, when Draco realizes his feelings go beyond friendship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...so by a couple days I meant a couple months. OBVIOUSLY. I only have excuses for half that time, too (film festival for all film majors at the university, finals week, and disney vacation). The rest of the time I was being lazy. Sorry about that. Hope the super long second chapter makes up for it!

Draco felt sick.

He couldn’t hear anything besides the sound of the Headmaster calling out ‘ _Harry Potter!_ ’ to a shocked hall. _Harry Potter! Harry Potter! Harry Potter!_ The fourth champion. Somehow there was a fourth _fucking_ champion. He wasn’t sure how he made it back to the common room, or up to his dorm, but he only became aware of his surroundings again when Blaise was snapping his fingers in front of his face. He was somehow sitting on the edge of his bed, Blaise looking increasingly worried, kneeling in front of him.

“Oi. Draco. Dra-co. _Draco Lucius Malfoy_!” The last was shouted, and since Blaise was directly beside his ear, and Draco finally flinched, quickly shushing him. Blaise rolled his eyes. “There you are,” he said impatiently. He stood, and began pacing. “I swore to myself I wouldn’t interfere, but if _Potter_ , especially Potter doing his usual attention-grabbing stunts, is enough to throw you off, then I need to.”

Draco opened his mouth, inexplicably, to defend Potter. He’d whipped around to look at Potter’s face when the headmaster called out the fourth name, just like the rest of the school, but he seemed to be the only one who had seen the abject terror on Potter’s face. “ _And_ ,” Blaise pressed on, pointedly not giving him space to speak. “I need you to let me, without biting my head off. Your father being arrested clearly has you…off-kilter, and not in the usual way. You’re not angry, you’re…almost guilty.”

Blaise glanced back at the door, and belatedly cast a charm that wouldn’t let eavesdroppers have access to their conversation. He gingerly sat down beside Draco, the bed dipping in a way that encouraged him to lean on his friend. Despite this, Draco kept his spine straight. “Hey,” Blaise said, nudging his shoulder with his own. “You know, even if I disagree with you, nothing leaves this room if you don’t want it too, right?”

Draco tensed. Blaise was one of the few in his year who didn’t have an active death eater for a close relative, but it had mostly been understood that it was because his mother never kept a man around for that long, not because he was unsympathetic to their cause. Draco was no longer sure where he stood on the vaunted ‘cause.’ Just a few months ago, he was sure he would have laughed right along with them at the expense of the muggles they’d…that they’d _hurt_. For no other reason than that’s how things went. But that was before he’d been hurt. Before his mother had apparently lost her mind and betrayed them all. Even in recent years, when the thought of his father caused just as much fear as it did joy, he knew he’d never betray him. Why had his own mother? She and his father, while not obnoxiously affectionate like others, had loved each other.

Had been fond of each other.

Tolerant?

He wasn’t sure anymore. He balked at the idea of telling Blaise anything. Vince had already started asking him about _why_ his mother had done what she had, and he couldn’t reasonably give him an answer. But.

But.

Blaise didn’t have death eater relatives. He _didn’t_ , and if there’s one person who he could trust to understand being on the outside of that fervor, even unwillingly, it could be him.

“What do you know about…what happened?” he finally asked.

Blaise frowned. “The Cup?” he asked uncertainly. Draco nodded. “Your father, and some others, got caught after letting off some steam , toying around with muggles. Probably stupid, but they weren’t hurt, were they? Just panicked, a little.” His tone sounded forced, and Draco slumped in relief.

Carefully, he loosened the ties at the top of the school robe, and let the collar and stiff shoulder pads slip off one shoulder. Draco was close enough to hear Blaise suck in a shocked breath at the scars that refused to go away, no matter what the personal family healers did. “What the hell is that?” Blaise demanded.

“Wedding gift,” Draco muttered, giving the same explanation he’d given Potter, that his mother had given him. “Father got it from Aunt Bella, and was firing it off without a care during the…afterparty, at the Cup. It hit me, mother turned him in.”

Blaise swore, then went silent. “Is that why Vince and Greg are avoiding you?” he finally asked, and Draco tensed. He’d expected more questions about the spell, or the Cup, not about this.

He scowled. “Yes,” he said shortly.

Blaise frowned, thinking. “And…do you—?”

“I don’t know!” Draco burst out, cutting off whatever Blaise was going to ask. “I don’t know why she did it, and I don’t know if I’m supposed to hate my own mother, or if I’m supposed to stay silent about what happened or shout it from the rooftops!”

“Wait a minute, _hate_?” Blaise demanded. “She was trying to protect you!”

Draco scoffed. “I was being an idiot—dad wrote from Azkaban and said I should’ve stayed in the tent, shouldn’t have been out at all.”

“That’s bullshit,” Blaise said firmly. “You—”

A harsh banging on their door interrupted them. “What’re you guys doing?” Theodore Nott’s voice came from the other side of the door. “I want to go to bed!”

Draco flushed, but Blaise just rolled his eyes and lazily flicked his wand. Theo stumbled through the door, glaring at them. Blaise turned to Draco. “Remember what I said,” he said finally. “And that I’m here if you ever need to talk.”

Draco was spared having to reply by Theo’s sharp, “Not here, you’re not! Find somewhere else to gush about your feelings—I need my beauty sleep!”

 

Draco lasted a week.

A week of watching the school turn against Potter, a week of him fumbling around lost, a week of Potter being bloody well _alone_ , since his supposed best friend seemed to have abandoned him. A week, before he dragged Potter into an abandoned classroom and pointed his wand at him.

Potter protested the entire time, of course. “Woah, what— _Malfoy?_ Where’re we—wait, what the _fuck_!” He exclaimed when Draco turned his wand on him.

“Wand up,” Draco said calmly, as if he weren’t seemingly threatening the Savior of the Wizarding World.

“What the fuck are you on about?” Potter demanded, doing no such thing. “I thought you, at least, didn’t care about the Tournament! If—”

“Wand _up_!” Draco demanded, shouting now, and fired off a soft hex that landed on the bust directly beside Potter’s head. The bust sprouted hair from it’s ears and nostrils, and Potter swore again. “That ‘any time’ offer is still open, isn’t it? Well, you’re absolute shit at dueling, and we need to work on your ability before you’re tossed in front of Merlin-knows-what, so I’m trading it in.”

“Wha—are you _helping_ me?” Potter asked, looking gobsmacked.

“What did you think all that was, you useless lump? Now, do as I say Potter, and _wand up_!” Draco snarled. “You’re not getting hurt in this, not if I can help—oof.” Potter, instead of finally getting his wand out, had run head first at Draco and engulfed him in a hug. His unruly hair tickled the bottom of Draco’s chin, and he was so shocked he couldn’t even find it in him to be annoyed by it.

“You _are_ helping me,” Potter muttered against his shirt, and then leaned back. “You don’t have to be so worried, though. Hermione and me have been practicing, getting some nasty tricks up our sleeves.”

 _What muggle nonsense is the phrase ‘up our sleeves?’_ Draco bit back, because antagonizing the person he was trying to protect seemed like it wouldn’t end well. “Well,” he said stiffly instead. He turned towards the door and made to walk out. Of course Potter wouldn’t want his help; even with the state of the school’s opinion of him he still had people to support him. “If you have no need of me, I’ll—”

He nearly choked on his tongue when Potter caught his forearm and hauled him back towards him. “Who said I didn’t want to learn from you?” he demanded. “It’ll work much better having two different perspectives to go off.”

Draco eyed him. Potter blinked up at him guilelessly, grinning. “C’mon, it’ll be fun, too!”

Finally, Draco conceded. “Alright. I’ll help.”

 

They practiced. They practiced, and practiced, and practiced, until Potter was as good a duelist as Draco could possibly make him. Granger had joined them after their third dueling session, both of them glaring at each other until, reluctantly, Granger had nodded at him.

“Malfoy,” she greeted grudgingly.

“Granger,” he nodded back, keeping his face blank, lest she punch him again.

She was good; Draco, of course, knew this intellectually, since she bloody well beat him at nearly everything. However, knowing something intellectually was quite different from seeing it in front of his eyes, and _knowing_ it. Granger had a mind like Devil’s Snare, catching on to the slightest thing and twisting it to their advantage, and ruthlessly and efficiently discarding things they didn’t need.

“Why aren’t you in Slytherin?” he demanded after one practice. Potter— _Harry_ , the irritating sod had insisted before clapping him on the shoulder not a minute ago—had already bound out of the room. _Uncivilized Gryffindor_ , Draco thought when he’d done that, ignoring the warmth that spread from the contact.

“What?” Granger asked, pausing in putting her books away.

“You’ve got the mind for it,” Draco insisted. “You’re very—” He cut himself off, unsure of what he was going to say. She had the same type of mind as his mother—and Pansy, when she bothered with schoolwork at all—and didn’t that throw him for a loop. Now that the comparison had popped into his head, it refused to go away, and his stomach burned at the thought of someone talking to his mother the way he’d talked to Granger.

Granger snorted, and finished packing. “There’s no way I would’ve lasted a month here before quitting with you lot,” she told him, rolling her eyes. She made a face, then, nose crinkling and eyebrows furrowing. “You’re…you’re decent, I think, since what happened this summer. But that doesn’t—” She sighed. “Before Hogwarts, I went to a lot of schools.”

It was Draco’s turn to snort. “No idea why Muggles insist on so much _school_ before anyone’s old enough to properly sit still,” he muttered, then raised his hands defensively when Hermione made to slap him on the arm. “Not that they don’t have a good reason, I’m sure!”

She rolled her eyes again. “Anyway,” she said. “I went to a lot of schools, because I had to be moved around a lot. Detentions, suspensions, the like. Being mouthy and smart isn’t cute on…on someone like me.”

She held up her hand, balled into a fist with the back of her hand facing him. It took a moment for it to click. Draco’s stomach sank. There was a part of him that wanted to start up about how muggle’s concept of race was nonsense, but since that was wrapped up in all the speeches his father gave him, and usually was followed with some variation of ‘ _this is why wizards are_ better,’ he decided to keep his mouth shut on the subject.

Granger looked down, dropping her hand to her side. “Slytherin would have been a great fit, probably,” she continued, “but you can’t tell me that you all wouldn’t have made those kids in primary school look like amateurs.”

Draco opened his mouth, guilt twisting in his stomach. He was proud of his house, but they’d apparently lost a great witch because of the stupid, short-sighted dogma that his father called blood supremacy (Even in all their stilted letters, he couldn’t tell where his mother stood anymore). Granger held up her hand, palm out. “ _Don’t_ apologize,” she told him, glaring at him again. “That wasn’t the point of this. You asked, I gave an honest answer.”

Silence reigned, until Draco sighed dramatically. “Well, since _I_ don’t have another free period after this, I should probably go,” he said, aiming for his usual attitude but likely failing horribly. He walked towards the door, which burst back open before he could reach it.

Harry stumbled through, gasping for breath and leaning on his knees, brown skin flushed and forehead lightly sweaty. “Whatever it is you two are fighting about, stop it!” he said, still out of breath.

Draco genuinely smirked. “We’re not fighting, Harry,” Granger said beside him, clearly fighting giggles. Harry looked up at them, eyes flicking from one to the other, shocked.

“You’re…not?” he said, disbelievingly. They both shook their head. “Oh. That’s—that’s brilliant, then. Er. Yeah.” He seemed to root around for another subject that didn’t involve one of them seriously maiming the other, and settled on, “So, we’re sill on for Hogsmeade together this weekend, Hermione?”

Granger finally let a laugh escape her, and said, “Yes, Harry, of course.” Draco refused to examine the sick feeling that caused. He had no reason to want them to _not_ go together. _None_ , he told himself firmly, _None at all. And I certainly don’t want to go_ with _them, why would_ —

“—want to come with us?” Harry’s voice snapped him out of his thoughts. Harry was looking at him hopefully, smiling. Wings fluttered in Draco’s stomach. “Hermione’s got a huge list of all the places she wants to go to, but I was thinking of just hanging out in Honeyduke’s for a bit.”

A grin started to form on Draco’s face, quite without his permission, before he remembered his actual plans. “I can’t,” he said reluctantly. Harry’s face fell, and Draco wanted to take it back immediately. “I-I’m going to get my robes, you know, for the ball, with mother, and we already—”

“No, I get it,” Harry waved him off. He was smiling again, but nowhere near as big as he had been. “Not like you can cancel on your own mum, right?”

“Right,” Draco agreed, half a mind to go to the owlry and do just that.

“See you later, then?” Harry grabbed the door handle, halfway back out. Granger followed him, but was looking at Draco oddly.

“Yeah, definitely,” Draco said, matching Harry’s smile. “See you later.” Harry and Granger left.

 

Draco was in a foul mood the entire fitting. He knew his mother wanted to talk to him, and they definitely should talk, but he couldn’t stop thinking about Harry, and Honeydukes, and how at this very moment he could be with him (and Granger) if he hadn’t been an _idiot_ and pushed off her coming to the school because of some childish snit he’d been having with her, to the point where Hogsmeade weekend was the only time Madame Malkin could fit him, and he had half a mind to just grab a premade robe and run back, only his mother likely wouldn’t let him, because ‘ _Malfoys must always look impeccable_ ,’ as his father would no doubt say—

“There,” Malkin’s voice cut off his surly thoughts. She removed the robe his shoulders, going to hang it on the mannequin. “All done.”

It was a beautiful robe: panels of deep, rich green over a base the color of leaves, and gold stitching bring attention to the cut and twisting in delicate decoration over the wrists and hem. The collar was the color of Harry’s eyes, and just like that, his mood dissipated. It was just _one_ weekend he was missing, and he hadn’t seen his mother in _months_. His own thoughts came back to him: he’d hex the person that treated his mother the way he’d treated Granger, and right now? Right now, he _was_ that person.

He was being a brat.

His mother came up behind him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “You’ll be able to have these to him within the week?” she asked. Her face was carefully blank, as it never was around just him, and guilt twisted Draco’s stomach.

“Of course, Lady Black,” Madame Malkin nodded, face impassive. “As always. I’ll just get you’re invoice.” She smiled, and hurried from the room. _Lady Black_. The guilt intensified. However Draco felt about his father, his mother was just as important to him, and she’d just gone through something everyone in their circle insisted was anathema, an _abomination_ to everything they held dear. Both his parents had talked with him at length about the importance of such things, of loyalty to your partner, and regardless of the _why,_ Draco had to believe the reason was a good one (and a part of him whispered that he already knew the reason).

“Well,” his mother said stiffly. “Where would you like me to apparate you to, once we’re done here?” Usually, if she and father had come to visit, they would take the entire day together, enjoying wherever they were visiting and basking in each other’s company. Cutting their day short like this, even if Draco had wanted just that, brought him lower than anything they’d shouted at each other had.

“I—mother, can I—” he stumbled over his words, and the blankness of her face cracked to show concern. “How are you?”

“Fine, of course,” she responded, almost automatically, and she stared at him in bafflement now.

“You—you’re sure?” Draco asked. “When we…argued, you said that you had your reasons, and I wanted to—are they still, good?”

His mother softened, but it was nowhere near her usual warmth she displayed to them when they didn’t have company. “They’re excellent,” she told him. “And as I said, I’m fine. You don’t have to worry about me, Dragon.”

Madame Malkin came bustling back into the room before Draco could come up with a suitable reply. “Here you are, Lady Black,” she said, handing over the parchment. “I hope you frequent our stores again.”

Mother nodded, and held out her arm for Draco. He took it, and they walked out of the store together.

“You never said where you wanted to be Apparated to?” she asked, glancing at him. The sun was still somewhat high in the sky. A ball of hope grew in his stomach; Harry could still be in Hogsmeade.

“Honeydukes?” Draco asked. “There’s a friend I’d like to meet there.”

His mother’s face shuttered. He wanted to apologize, but the excitement at the possibility of seeing Harry kept him silent. “Of course, darling,” she told him. She twisted, and they appeared at the Apparition point outside of the candy story with a soft ‘pop’. She stepped away from him. “I’ll see you for the New Year’s Ball, then?”

Draco nodded, heart in his throat. She nodded back, and Apparated away. He looked around. There were barely any students left, and he couldn’t see Harry anywhere in the crowds in the store. He whirled around, hoping to spot him, and his eyes caught on a familiar mop of black hair at the end of the street. He took off, sliding through the crowds until he’d caught up to it.

“Harry!” he greeted, skidding to a halt in front of him and leaning on his knees from the exertion. He smiled up at Harry and Granger and their bags. “Hi!”

“Draco?” Harry asked, bewildered. “I thought you had the fitting?”

“Got finished early,” Draco gasped, standing to his full height and trying to get his breathing under control. “Do you still want to go to Honeydukes?”

Harry shifted guiltily. “We, er, already went. We were headed back, actually.” Draco’s mood sank for the second time that day. “But we could still hang out! Walk back with us, and we can swipe something from the kitchen?” Granger huffed in annoyance at that, but Draco was too happy with the question to wonder what had her knickers in a twist.

They walked back in relative silence, Harry occasionally showing him purchases that made him laugh or gasp (more at Harry’s face than at anything sold in _Hogsmeade_ of all places), and Granger even shared with him the books she bought that looked particularly challenging, letting him read the summary or even start the first chapter, if he were so inclined.

Hogwarts came into view, and Draco slowed as Harry and Hermione sped up. He hadn’t considered this; being seen with the Golden Boy and Granger. Helping Harry was one thing; being _seen_ with him, as a friend of his, was quite another—and something he couldn’t take back. _I could always double back_ , he thought. _Say I forgot something, or wanted to grab my own copy of whatever they showed me._ He felt a wash of shame for even thinking it. Harry only had him and Granger right now, since the weasel was being thick. In addition to that, Harry had been a better friend to him in the few weeks they’d not been rivals than most of the Slytherins in his year, bar Pansy or Blaise or Greg. (Though the latter had been uncomfortable around him lately, tugged between him and Vince.) He thought of Harry, and Granger, and their empty practice classroom— _theirs_ , a place where nobody and no other expectations than their own had any say over how he acted. Taking a deep breath, he made his decision.

He sped up, catching up to Harry just as the figures by the entrance to the castle solidified into Theo Nott and Vince Crabbe. “So, Potter,” he said loudly, slinging an arm around the shorter boy’s shoulder. “I’ve thought about it since yesterday, and I’ve decided that I don’t believe you about the Wimbourne Wasps chaser.” Draco deliberately didn’t look in the direction of his fellow Slytherins, but saw their bodies turn towards him out of the corner of his eye.

Harry didn’t see this, too busy spluttering indignantly at Draco’s assessment. Granger did though, and looked sharply between him and his other housemates. Draco tilted his body so he was in between him and the other boys, giving Granger what he hoped was a reassuring smile as Harry found his voice again. _Trust me_.

“They _are_!” Harry insisted as they passed through the entrance hall. “You’re just a berk with no taste in quidditch teams! Just because…” Draco only gave him one ear, agreeing or snorting in disapproval when appropriate, but gave the bulk of his ears over to listening for angry footsteps. None followed them, but Draco didn’t relax until he saw Granger and Harry into their common room, Granger still staring at him oddly.

 

Harry thought, as far as his life was currently going, he only had one complaint (alright, he had a lot of complaints, most to do with dead parents and evil wizards, but only one that was immediate). He’d defeated the dragon in the First Task, Ron was talking to him again, and he’d even managed to get a date to the Yule Ball. His one complaint, though, was this: Draco had been acting weirdly around him since the First Task, and Harry was getting sick of it.

At first, he’d thought it was because of Ron. He’d taken both of them aside and told them that even though their families had a huge generations old feud, they were both his friend and he wasn’t going to put up with it. Ron had agreed easily, and Draco had acquiesced after a lot of eye-rolling. Harry had thought that was the end of it, especially when he’d nearly been bored out of his mind by the two discussing complicated chess strategies.

He was wrong, of course.

Because that was just his life at this point.

As the Yule Ball drew closer, Draco had become even more skittish around him. He thought other Slytherins might be giving him a hard time for being friends with him, but a tall black boy named Zabini was always with him around Crabbe, Goyle, and another boy named Nott, and seemed to diffuse any trouble. He thought it was because he didn’t have a date, but Pansy Parkinson flouncing around and gushing about her new dress put an end to that thought. Harry thought this problem might be eating at him more than he thought, because Parkinson’s dress talking had annoyed him much more than it should have.

He hadn’t figured it out by the last class before the ball, he didn’t figure it out during changing into his dress robes, and he certainly didn’t figure it out at any point during the first dance. He sighed, slumping further into his seat just off the dance floor. Both the Patil twins had left him and Ron early in the night, and Ron had abandoned him to go poke at the food available.

“Well isn’t this just pathetic,” came a familiar drawl, and Harry straightened immediately. Draco pulled a chair close to Harry’s slumping into it with a relieved sigh and closing his eyes. His dress robes looked ten times better than Harry’s, and his hair was still gelled and staying neat around his face despite him and Parkinson being one of the first on the floor after the champions.

“You’re one to talk,” Harry replied, but there was no bite to it. He smiled.

“Oh, no, _I’m_ not the one that spent half the dance sitting pathetically on the sidelines,” Draco said, eyes still closed. “ _That_ was our illustrious Boy Who Refused to Dance.”

“I _can’t_ dance,” Harry complained. “I’m terrible at it, even with the lessons.”

Draco opened one eye. “Well that’s just awful,” he stated. Harry opened his mouth to agree, before Draco held out a hand.

“What?” Harry questioned, and Draco sighed as if he were the stupidest person in existence.

“Come dance,” he said. Harry stared at him blankly. “Come dance _with me_. I’ve been taught since I was six, and I’ll be leading the first dance at our Winter Ball in a few days. I’m sure I could show you _something_.”

“Wha—sure, okay,” Harry said, nodding dumbly and more than a little sure he’d hit his head somewhere.

Before he could say anything else, though, Draco had yanked him to his feet and was gliding onto the dance floor, Harry in tow. He only caught a glimpse of Ron’s gobsmacked face, before Draco spun him around to face him.

“You’re going to want to pay attention to what I’m doing, so you can duplicate it later,” Draco told him, businesslike. “But for now, just relax, and follow my feet.” Harry opened his mouth to tell him that this was _exactly_ what McGonagall had told him, before Draco made a face and continued. “Actually, pretend we’re on brooms, and you’re following me because I saw the snitch, but you don’t see it yet. That should help you a lot better than the first bit.”

Another song started—and they started to dance. It was brilliant; _Draco_ was brilliant. It felt like flying, somehow, like a Wronski Feint or a safe catch of the quaffle after balancing on your kneecaps. Harry was sure they danced through only a couple songs, but the hall was nearly deserted the next time he looked up. Both Hermione and Ron had left, and he couldn’t see Padma or Parvati anywhere.

“Wow,” he said, breathless.

Draco shrugged, uncharacteristically humble. “Dancing is fun, when you know how. C’mon.” He led them back to their seats.

“What’d you say about a Winter Ball?” Harry asked when they were both seated. “I thought you were staying the whole break?”

Draco made a face. “Sort of,” he answered. “I’m staying most of the break, but the Malfoy Winter Ball is a huge event, and I can’t let mother go through the stress of it alone, especially not _now_.”

‘Now.’

Harry felt like an idiot. Somehow, he’d forgotten Draco would be having a rough year, too—his father had been arrested for hurting muggles. Harry felt no sympathy for the elder Malfoy, but it must be hard losing a dad. _Or_ , he thought, _a_ _husband_.

“How _is_ Mrs. Malfoy?” he asked.

“Black.”

“Hm?”

“Black,” Draco repeated. “It’s her maiden name; she’s divorced father, since he endangered me.”

The words ‘ _good for her!_ ’ fought to get out of his mouth, but what actually came out was, “She’s related to Sirius Black?” His godfather had never talked a lot about his family, just said the Marauders were who he considered family, and that was that. He’d have to write to him about Draco’s mum, to see what he could tell him about her.

Unexpectedly, Draco scowled. “Yes,” he bit out. “But she’s her own person! She’s an excellent mother, and a good person, even if she might have a few Death Eater connections.”

Harry hugged Draco. He felt he should’ve done it sooner—should’ve seen the stress his friend was under—but squeezed tighter as substitute. “I _know_ that,” Harry said. His arms relaxed, but he let them stay around Draco’s torso. “Besides, I’m sure she has just as many ‘connections,’ or whatever, to good people. You, for one.” He looked up, finding his face unexpectedly close to Draco’s. He’d always thought grey was a bit of a boring eye color; this close, though, he could see a subtle but beautiful gradient in the grey, and flecks of other colors that made the grey around them glow.

Draco jerked away from him suddenly, and Harry nearly fell face-first onto the chair next to him. The other boy was standing in front of him, looking more skittish than all the other times combined. “I-I should get back,” he said stiffly. “Common room. Pansy. Promised her I’d see her off to bed.”

“Okay,” Harry said warily. Draco was already edging towards the giant double doors, and had put half the room between them with quick-footed baby steps. “I’ll see you later?” Harry shouted after him.

“Yeah,” Draco said, smiling just as stiffly and jerkily nodding. He broke into a fast stride, nearly a run, as he finally turned away from Harry. “Later!”

Harry scowled after him. There was nothing for it—he was going to have to ask Hermione what she thought of Draco’s strange behavior. Whatever it was, it couldn’t be that bad, could it?

**Author's Note:**

> Leave a review if you made it this far, I'd really appreciate it!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Lunch Break](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13965807) by Anonymous 




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